Kathleen Pickering - Where It Began

She shook her head. “You’re right. Me neither.”

Without breaking their gaze, she reached for the canvas and tossed it overboard, a simple splash confirming its destination.

“Now, it’s fish food.”

She’d tossed it overboard.

He wanted to shake her. That painting was beautiful. Damn his own foul temper. He sucked in a quick breath and glanced over the side. The canvas bobbed faceup in the moonlight. Slack tide. Good.

He mustered all the calm he could. “I guess that finishes one masterpiece.”

She turned in her chair and started to recap her paints.

“Do you care what happens to it?” he asked.

She didn’t look up. “I tossed it. Didn’t I?”

“Then do you mind if I salvage it?”

Her glance shot to him. “I’m not surprised you would go after it. I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a gold digger.”

Another low blow. He’d have to play along with this one. “Well, then you’ll have to excuse me.”

Slowly, he pulled his T-shirt up, only breaking eye contact long enough to tug the garment over his head. Then he went for the tie at his shorts.

She stood, panic and heat warring in her eyes. “What are you doing?”

He fought the impulse to move closer when her gaze roamed his chest in the familiar way that had usually left them sweaty and, damn him, satisfied.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to retrieve my investment. If you don’t want it, I’ll consider it a bonus to my salary.”

Disregarding his answer, she lifted her hand, fingers outstretched, her gaze falling to his stomach. Would she…touch him? Then, as if she were coming out of a trance, his words registered. Anger mingled with heat in her eyes. “That’s my painting. You can’t have it.”

He chuckled to cover the groan rising in his throat. “Not anymore. Law of the sea. I keep anything I salvage.” He couldn’t help himself. “And that just might include you, Princess.”

Not even bothering to finish sealing the paint tubes, she crammed them into the box, slamming the lid closed.

“Why don’t you just drop dead, Del Rio?”

Daniel simply stared as she disappeared down the companionway, staggered at how empty the night felt with her absence. Once upon a time, her hands would have been all over him when he removed his shirt. How could he have hoped for her to touch him, again?

He moved toward the swim ladder. She’d forgotten the dinghy was launched. He’d pulled his shirt off just to rile her. He’d succeeded, all right. At the rate things were going, the water-drenched painting would be all of Maria Santiago he’d recover from this trip.

As he descended the ladder, he sighed, bone deep. Since the canvas depicted two souls falling to earth, no one deserved this painting more than he did.

THE WALLS OF MARIA’S CABIN closed in. How could the sight of Del Rio’s bare chest make her think she had a right to touch him—or even want to. And, Dios. The draw of his skin had her fingers aching.

Imagine. Claiming he’d salvage her along with her painting when the look in his eyes said ravage. The thought intoxicated her senses. Madre de Dios. That tanned wall of muscle and perfection he called a chest tempted her too quickly. Instinct had her fingertips reaching to brush the dark hair dusting the middle of his chest. She’d caught the impulse in time and slammed the paint box closed. Had he noticed her original intent? Heaven help her. Not even hours from home and she was losing her grip. Was she that desperate to touch a man?

Or was it just Del Rio?

She opened the paint box, forcing herself to concentrate on the slow ritual of capping and arranging her paints and cleaning the brushes. The scent of the oils soothed her. She wiped the palette clean, her body silently thrumming, her focused mind suddenly considering the idea of painting Del Rio for the second time today. This time, naked from the hips up.

Her hands stopped in midair.

What was she thinking? The rush of adrenaline coursing through her body was the same familiar drive she felt when her inspiration needed an outlet. Emotional overload spilled out onto her canvases when her passions ran high. Why would she experience this familiar, welcoming rush with Del Rio? Were they emotionally linked, and she could not remember? Dios, no. She would not even consider such a possibility. Not when her mind darkened so completely every time she probed for some kind of recognition.

The breeze invading the hatch over her bed betrayed no sound of Del Rio from above. Probably rescuing what he believed to be another piece of the family fortune, if indeed he was brownnosing Poppa for some sort of inheritance. She made a mental note to question her father about this. She needed more negative points to tick off when it came to Del Rio. Oh, yes. His belligerence was insufferable, his cocky, proprietary attitude toward her infuriating. Concentrating on these reminders should help kill any attraction she felt for him. So why did his pirate smile keep rising in her mind?

She swallowed hard. Because, she had felt a pull toward him before they even boarded ship. She’d purposely spent as little time as possible in his company. Given this undeniable attraction and her inability to recognize him from earlier years, as Poppa seemed to think she should, this man intimidated her like none other. She was doomed.

Okay, it was time to reevaluate her position if she planned to continue this trip. Del Rio was attractive…downright seductive. She could acknowledge that point. There was no way around the fact she was trapped with this man for the next few weeks. Something good had to come of this expedition. She would remember; she held that belief deep inside. Reaching the truth was her sole purpose for climbing onto the Honora.

In the meantime, Del Rio was not open for exploration. No matter what her fascination with him, until her memory was restored she could not cross into new territory, even if it held a muscled, irresistible, gentlemanly rogue who seemed more than willing to cross boundaries with her. No. No. No. Especially when she still had doubts about who he was, and his motives for taking her to Little Harbour. She had to remember first. Until then, Del Rio’s delectable body was off-limits. Period.

Instead, she’d journal her thoughts on canvas.

That was it. She’d paint her way to recovering her memory. She’d create her own, personal artist’s diary. This sail would offer therapy for channeling these disquieting thoughts and urges until she understood why they existed. There certainly were enough canvases in the guest cabin to accomplish the goal.

Satisfied with this decision, she felt confident she could remain in Del Rio’s company as a passenger on her father’s yacht.

Perfect.

Center ship, the engine rumbled to life. She closed her eyes, saying a prayer for strength. The thought of strength drew her mind to Poppa. The doctor had given her the okay to sail with the promise that Elias was strong. She wouldn’t have set foot on the Honora if she hadn’t gotten that guarantee.

After years of battling with diabetes, Elias was living on borrowed time. Diabetes was no simple disease. Her father had already progressed into advanced stages. His ankle joints had dissolved, although his feisty nature always had one believing he’d jump from his wheelchair at any moment. She suspected he had been seeking a way to keep her from witnessing his deterioration, especially his weakened heart. She would not have taken this trip if she did not believe she could recoup her memory and be fully present to help Poppa. If he worsened while she was away, there would be hell to pay.

She pushed the thought from her mind. Besides, a more immediate danger loomed. Captain Daniel Murphy Del Rio. How she’d manage keeping her distance from him on fifty feet of teak and mahogany presented a challenge. She’d pretend he didn’t exist. After all, she suspected he was only doing her father’s bidding. Arm’s length was easy with hired help. That should roast Del Rio’s pride until she could finish this voyage.